Daughter of the Sea

VII: Awakening

Geraint threw the wood down with a cry and ran, instinct overriding thought; he threw himself upon the rough stone face and scrambled up after her, reaching out protectively just as she turned her face toward him. Her amazed expression halted him instantly.

"What are you doing?" she asked, in obvious astonishment.

He gulped, tried to breathe. "I...was going to ask you that." She looked blankly at him, and held up her free hand. Her fist grasped a silver sickle, a larger version of the pendant she wore, razor-edged.

"Cutting sweetgrass," she explained, looking bemused. "It grows in cracks in the rocks, and we burn it as incense. Here, watch." She swung out again, over empty space that made his head swim, to reach over and slice off another clump of the grass, catching it neatly in the same hand that held the sickle. Geraint, panicked, involuntarily grabbed her supporting arm to steady her.

She stiffened, and he realized, too late, by the jerk in her frame, that she would have thrown off his hand had she been able to move her arm. Her green eyes blazed at him and he let go, stammering. "I'm sorry. I thought...I didn't...this seems dangerous." He glanced past her to the ground; it looked lethally far away.

"What you just did," she said drily, "was dangerous. This has been one of my duties since I was twelve. I have it more or less well in hand by now." She shifted against the rocks, found a foothold and pushed herself higher. Geraint bit back a groan.

"I'm showing my ignorance, I know," he admitted, looking away from the dizzying drop below, "but where I come from... ladies are not encouraged to scale cliff faces. Or anything at all. Forgive me for presuming you were in peril."

"You presumed much, just now," she said crisply, from above. "But you're already breaking one law, so I suppose I can pardon you on one more as well." He thought he detected a faint note of humor in her voice, and relaxed a little, though he still had to restrain himself from grabbing at the ankle that was now in front of his nose. He wondered what the penalty was for a common man to touch a Daughter of Llyr, and decided not to ask.

"What do the ladies do where you're from, anyway?" Angharad demanded, from above.

Geraint laid his face against the black rock, soaking in the coolness of it. "I suppose...well, it depends on who they are. I've known farmer's daughters who could herd cattle, stack stone, and haul firewood alongside their brothers. And I've known noble ladies who could manage an entire castle and its lands while their husbands were away in battle." He shook his head. "They're not just sitting about tatting lace and embroidering cushions over there, you know."

"Of course they aren't," she said, pulling her elbows onto a ledge. "It's nice of you to notice. Though there's nothing wrong with tatting lace and embroidering cushions, for that matter, if you enjoy that sort of thing." Her scrambling legs disappeared over the edge, and for a moment he saw only waving grasses against the sky. Then her head appeared, haloed in gold in the sunlight; on her shadowed face he could faintly see the outlines of a smirk. "But they don't climb. Or talk with men alone. Or even walk about alone, according to my cousin. Why?"

He thought for a moment, and started to answer when she added, "You could come up here, by the way; it would make this conversation easier."

Geraint scrambled up to the ledge, a turf-carpeted hollow which turned out to be wide enough for them both to sit comfortably, even when he gave her a respectful amount of space. He sat with his back to the cliff face, and looked out, admiring the landscape visible from this height, colors and textures spread beneath them like a moving, breathing tapestry. Angharad followed his gaze knowingly. "I don't know why the view from above is always so much better," she remarked, "but it is, no matter where you are."